


Stalker

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a stalker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stalker

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest community, for the prompt "John has a stalker".

The first thing John does when he realizes that he has a stalker is get his affairs in order.

* * *

“Captain. Got a minute?”

Scalvino glances up from the mounds of paperwork littering the desk to shoot him the harried look he’s perfected over the years, but waves him in. “What is it now, McClane?”

Jeeezus. You’d think he was stopping by the office every other day, harassing the captain like some goddamn rookie. Visiting the brass is right up there with "get a root canal" in his personal list of favourite things to do. John compromises by stepping through the doorway and leaning against the jamb. “Need some time off.”

Scalvino huffs out a breath, hunches over his forms in triplicate. “You know the routine, McClane. Put in the request with the sergeant, vacation time is approved by order of seniority.”

“I need the time now, Captain.” John shifts against the scuffed and dirty doorframe. “Got an issue I’ve gotta deal with.”

“An issue,” Scalvino repeats blankly.

“Came up kinda sudden,” John clarifies.

Scalvino might be an old pencil pusher working his way up to clogged arteries and an early pension, but he’s still sharp. His eyes dart quickly to the calendar propped haphazardly on his cluttered desk. “It’s not a holiday.”

John sighs.

“You got something you wanna tell me, McClane?”

“Not particularly, Captain.”

“Am I gonna get a bill for exploding bridges this time?”

“Technically, Captain, that bridge in Maryland didn’t explode. Some dumbass with an itchy trigger finger and worse aim than my dead grandmother shot it up. The building in L.A. exploded, but that was twenty odd years ago and it didn’t cause all that much damage.” John cocks his head, thinking. “And alright, the plane exploded, but you gotta admit that was a pretty smart way to get some landing lights for those planes running outta fuel up there. Coulda been a whole lot of airplanes in the Potomac that day if I hadn’t lit that fuse and—“

“Are you through, McClane?”

“Subway and dam. Those exploded. I think that’s it.”

“Get out of my office, McClane. You’re on vacation. And if there’s a Gruber in town, I don’t want to know about it.”

All in all, it goes better than John expected.

* * *

John loves his daughter. He truly does. He just usually doesn't understand her. He mostly gets lost somewhere between her long-winded monologues about rock bands he’s never heard of and her critique of college courses that sound, to him, like bad jokes. When the two meet in a course called, of all things, “Politicizing Beyonce”, he has to quickly move the phone away from his ear so that Lucy doesn’t hear his derisive snort.

“You still planning on coming over this weekend, Lucy?” he finally manages to cut in.

“Actually, Dad,” she says after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m not sure.”

There’s a world of future discussion in that pause, because he’s been a dad a long fucking time, thank you very much, and he knows _I met a boy and he asked me out and there’s no way in hell you’re going to approve of this one_ when he hears it. Or doesn't hear it, as the case may be. But keeping Lucy away from his place is the goal here, so he grits his teeth and only says, “Because I was thinking, maybe you should drive up to the Berkshires with Melissa, like you’ve been talking about. See all those autumn colours. What do you think?”

“Okay, that was way too casual,” Lucy says after another brief silence. “What’s going on? Is someone trying to kill you?”

John licks suddenly dry lips, tries to find the middle ground between too casual and not casual enough. “What? No, honey, nothing’s wrong, it’s just—“

“It’s Gabriel, isn’t it? He isn’t really dead. The government just covered the whole thing up. I knew it!”

“All right, Lucy,” John says patiently, “now you’re starting to sound like Matt.”

“Oh my god, is it a _Gruber_?”

“For chrissakes, Lucy, it’s not a Gruber and it’s not Gabriel!”

He can almost hear Lucy’s eyes narrow. “Then who is it, John?”

“You know I hate it when you call me John.”

“You know I hate it when you try to change the subject.”

John sighs, rubs at the bridge of his nose. “No one’s trying to kill me,” he says slowly. _I hope._ “I’m just… being followed.”

“Oh,” Lucy says. “You’re _just_ being followed. Fine. No big deal then.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Lucy.”

“And you figured you could just railroad me out of town while you, what, are murdered in your sleep one night by the psycho who’s _just_ following you?”

John knows he should be happy that Lucy is so protective, loves him so much. Instead, it just gives him a headache.

“No,” he says. “I just want to make sure you’re safe while I take care of it.”

“John—“

“I can’t do my job if I’m worrying about you, Luce.”

It’s kind of a low blow, but if it’ll get her out of town John’s willing to use it. Besides, he knows she still has nightmares about her kidnapping by Thomas Gabriel. The kid had a damn gun held to her head, for fucks sake. Every time he thinks of it he can feel his blood pressure rising, and then he just wishes that Gabriel was still alive so he could kill him all over again. There are just too many nights where Lucy shows up unannounced, looking pale and exhausted; too many times when he comes home from a long day at work to find her curled up on the single bed in the spare room with the lights off. She won’t talk about it – she is a McClane, after all, no matter what her college ID card says – so he’s just has to be satisfied that the shrink’s business card that he put on the nightstand went missing shortly after he left it there.

“Dad,” she says.

“I need you to do this for me, Lucy. I’ll be fine.”

* * *

John lifts the receiver, puts it down again. With Holly in California and Jack immersed in his studies in Boston, he realizes that he has no one else nearby that he has to call. No one else to keep safe.

Well, okay. He does have one more person.

Luckily, Matthew Farrell isn’t quite as savvy as his little girl.

“Heyyyy, McClane,” Matt says. John can hear the beeps and boops of a video game in the background, muted when Matt steps away from the computer or console or wherever he’s wasting his time. John’s pretty sure the giant TV and the six different machines hooked up to it are about the only items in Matt’s new apartment that didn’t come from the Goodwill – or salvaged from someone's garbage, but John has to occasionally sit on that sofa so he tries not to think about that or he'll start scratching and never stop. 

Oh, and there's also the few comic books that survived the fireball that Gabriel made of his old place.

The reminder of covering Matt with his body as the bullets flew takes his fifty-two year old mind places that it has no business going about a twenty-four year old guy. 

No places at all. 

He clears his throat, interrupts Matt’s discourse on the intricacies of the coding of his latest account to ask about the kid’s weekend plans.

“Oh, there’s a big LARP event going down in Philly. I might take the bus down, check it out.”

“A larper thing, huh?” John says. Sometimes talking with Matthew Farrell is even more confusing than talking with his daughter. At least he vaguely knows who Beyonce _is_. “Sounds like fun. You should go.”

“Yeah, could be a good time,” Matt agrees. “Um. Unless you want to hang out?”

“No,” John says quickly. The last thing he needs is Matthew Farrell getting caught in the middle of all this. The last thing he needs is Matthew Farrell. “No, kid. You should go and… larp.” 

“You have no idea what LARPing is, do you?”

“Not a clue,” John admits. 

“Are you feeling okay, McClane?”

“Just trying to get your pasty ass out of the house,” John tries. “Maybe this larping shit is like jogging, how the fuck should I know?”

“Like jog… you think larping might be like… oh man,” Matt says. John hears him take a breath before continuing. “Okay, McClane,” he says solemnly. “I’ll go and larp. I’ll larp like I’ve never larped before.”

* * *

John stands in the alley behind his little house, surveying the landscape.

The back fence isn't as sturdy as it once was – rotted in a few places, missing a couple of boards here and there. John never thought much about it before; it’s not like he has a kid or even a dog running around in the backyard. He tucks his hands in his pockets against the autumn chill, shuffles through the mound of rotting leaves that are strewn through the alley and gazes through the first gap, then the second. 

Bingo. 

Looking through the second gap from the right offers him an unobstructed view of his own living room.

John shakes his head, studies the ground again. But most police work isn't like the movies – whoever's been watching him hasn't left any convenient signs, like cigarette stubs or candy wrappers. The soggy, decomposing leaves even frustrate his search for footprints. 

But John knows the stalker has been here. Knows it in his gut. 

And he always trusts his gut.

* * *

Some things, however, _are_ like the movies. If you place enough pillows in just the right positions and cover them all with a blanket, it really does look like a body under the covers. And if you make sure that the television is turned on real loud, maybe place a couple of empty beer bottles on the coffee table – hell, maybe even knock one onto its side for good measure – it really does look like that person fell asleep watching some damn gangster flick on the classics channel.

Not that John ever does that. 

He usually can't manage to stay up that late.

He steps back, assesses his handiwork. It's not perfect, but from what he could make out of the view from that gap… he thinks it'll do.

Then he makes his way to the side of the house, and waits. 

He's done enough goddamn surveillance in his lifetime to hate every last minute of it, but at least that was usually in a car, sometimes even in a rundown motel room if he was lucky. It's been too long since he walked a beat, and he's forgotten how the cold gets under your skin. How what seems like a nice crisp evening when all you gotta do is walk from the sedan to the front door becomes numbing and disorienting when you're standing around with nothing to do but try to look inconspicuous for hours on end. He turns up the collar on his battered old leather jacket, breathes over his cold hands in an attempt to warm them. Wants to walk around in a vain attempt to wake up his circulation, but forces himself to stay still, silent.

He's almost ready to call it a night a little after midnight, when he hears a shifting of the leaves that can't be attributed to the wind. 

The smooth slide of his gun leaving its shoulder holster sounds loud to his ears.

He keeps to the overgrown bushes at the side of the property, edges his way around to the back fence. Pauses to take a breath, to calm his rocketing heartbeat. Yeah, no matter how many times he has to do this, it never stops scaring the shit out of him.

"Freeze, asshole," he shouts, gun drawn and steady as he rounds the corner. The light from the streetlamp at the corner backlights the stalker, outlines a thin, stark silhouette. "Hands in the air, NOW. Let me see your hands!"

“Just me. Oh my god, it’s just me. Don’t shoot!"

John squints against the harsh light, lowers the gun a fraction. "Matthew?"

* * *

John leans back against the kitchen counter, watches as Matt wraps his hands around the mug of coffee. Waits. And waits. And waits some more. When Matt merely sighs contentedly and gazes around the room, looking for all he's worth like he's just going to suggest they grab a couple of beers and watch something on the tube – looking like this is just some ordinary night, like he just didn't grab the kid by the scruff of the neck and drag him from his peeping tom position by the back gate – John starts to get annoyed.

"Care to explain yourself?" he clips out.

Matt glances up from his perusal of the contents of his mug, blinks at him, all big brown eyes and long lashes. Reminds him of the goddamn pup him and Holly had before she got the promotion at Nakatomi and took off for the coast. But he's not gonna cave like he did for that mutt, damnit. 

Something of his frustration must show on his face, because Matt gulps down a hasty swallow of the coffee that he normally disdains as "jet fuel" before setting the mug aside. 

"Right," he says. "Wow. Okay, so. I've been thinking a lot about what you said, you know, after the whole almost fire sale thing. About getting my life in order and not working for obvious criminals and… all that. So I was thinking, I should go into a new line of work. And the best thing I could think of was private eye. Work the other side of the fence. Gumshoe, right? Private dick? Get into the down and dirty underworld, save damsels in distress—"

"Matthew."

"--And what better way to gain experience than to track, like, only New York's finest supercop? So I thought I'd just shadow you for a few days... or weeks, I guess, really. Just get a taste for the whole thing before I really _commit_."

John sighs.

"No?"

"No."

"Are you going to give me that whole 'a cop knows when you're lying' thing again? Because I gotta tell ya, McClane, I totally got pulled over for speeding the other day and told the cop I was rushing to the hospital to see my sick grandfather, and he didn't suspect shit."

"Doesn't kick in until you make detective," John says. He turns to dump the remains of his own luke-warm joe into the sink. "I'll take it easy on ya, though. Give you another shot to come clean."

"At least I got my pasty ass out of the house?" 

"Second strike," John says as he rinses the dregs. "Three and you're out."

When he turns back Matt has his arms crossed over his chest in the standard defensive posture. He fully expects another deluge of verbosity, but the kid surprises him by hanging his head and sighing. "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth would be nice."

"The truth is too fucking embarrassing," Matt mutters.

John pushes away from the counter. "Look, kid. It's late and I'm an old man. I'm tired. If this has something to do with Lucy—"

Matt's head pops up like a marionette on a string, eyes comically wide. "What? No!"

Right. 

"I know I said I'd kill you if you came near my little girl, but I may have over exaggerated just a bit. Not sayin' I like the idea, but—"

"It's not Lucy," Matt interrupts. "It's not. It's… it's you."

John cocks his head, sure that he misheard. Damn kid does have the tendency to mumble. "Excuse me?"

Matt seems to have found something inordinately interesting on the floor tiles. But his shoulders lift in a shrug. "It's you."

John settles back against the counter, scrubs a hand over his face. In his job, he's always hyper-aware of how one little piece of information can change the whole board, rearrange all the puzzle pieces into the correct order. Hell, in his job he should've been able to see this coming. If Matt had been a woman, he would have. It's not like he didn't have female admirers come out of the woodwork after each of his previous Adventures With Terrorists. 

And if Matt had been a woman, he probably wouldn't have hesitated over his own feelings about the kid, despite the damn age difference. 

He looks up to find Matt staring at him with watchful, wary eyes. 

"Huh."

"Huh?" Matt repeats. "That's all you have to say? Really, McClane?"

John feels himself bristling, squares his shoulders. "Considering how much you like to run your mouth, you haven't exactly been forthcoming when it counts, kid."

“What was I supposed to do? Say ‘oh by the way McClane, I really like you and I’d kind of like to kiss your lips off’?” Matt scoffs. “Yeah, that’d work.”

“So your alternate plan was to stalk me until I almost shoot you to death?”

"Stalking is such a harsh word—"

"Besides, it might have."

"—I prefer to think of it as creative…. Wait. What?"

"It might have worked," John says. He waves a hand in the air, unable to completely keep the smirk from his face. "That whole kiss your lips off thing."

"That whole…" The kid's never had much of a poker face, but John thinks his current expression redefines incredulity. He cocks his head. "Are you kidding, McClane? 'Cause seriously, with you I can never tell."

The raw hope mixed with the skepticism in Matt's face is the first thing to give him pause. For a moment, he's reminded again that he's got a good couple of decades on the kid. That his last relationship – if you can call it that – with a man was before Holly, and shit, that might have been before Matt was born. That if he starts this thing, he has to control it; and if it doesn't work, he has to make sure that he leaves Matt in a better place than he found him. And if it does work… it's going to spin through and affect his entire life – his job, his friendships, his kids. 

But what was it he said earlier about trusting his gut?

"You know," John says, again pushing away from the sink, "if you're going to kiss my lips off, you should really call me John."


End file.
